


so cruelly you kissed me

by brophigenia



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Choking, D/s undertones, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Except kind of not, Future Fic, Grinding, Infidelity, Joseph Kavinsky Lives, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Prokopenko (Raven Cycle) Lives, Rough Sex, Sorry Not Sorry, Strangulation, Unhealthy Relationships, but this fic is like, that's what the whole damn fic is like, y'all the last fic was all sunshine and rainbows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 08:33:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21051413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. They were supposed to come to D.C. like conquering kings, to rule over everything in sight, all the city their dominion right from the start. They were supposed to bekings,as they’d been at Aglionby, in Henrietta, filling the hearts of locals with dread and wonderment all at once.(AKA, Prokopenko is unhappy and decides to cope with that by getting some of that D{eclan Lynch.} With sexy results.)





	so cruelly you kissed me

**Author's Note:**

> Again, nobody asked for this but I was looking for Jiang/Declan fics in my Google Drive and typed in 'Declan' and then found this old baby and decided to finish her real quick. It's trash, it's filth, I disgust myself, yadda yadda yadda. Title from Echo & The Bunnymen, cut lyrics from Lil Peep.

_ stick that needle in my eye _

_ just lost my peace of mind. _

***

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. They were supposed to come to D.C. like conquering kings, to rule over everything in sight, all the city their dominion right from the start. They were supposed to be  _ kings,  _ as they’d been at Aglionby, in Henrietta, filling the hearts of locals with dread and wonderment all at once. 

(“What do you even  _ do  _ all day?” Skov had giggled last week, scratchy over the shitty cell phone reception. Proko had sighed and exhaled, watching plumes of pot smoke make their way to the ceiling. With his other hand, he’d scratched at the trail of fine blonde hairs leading down to his fly. 

“Play Pokémon, work out, nap, piss off the maid, suck K’s dick…”  _ Hold my head under the bathwater until my vision blacks out. Smoke a lot of fucking weed. Ride around the subways looking for a fight. Go on dates with Declan Lynch.  _ He’d taken another drag, audible. “Y’know, the usual.”

Skov had only giggled again, high too, and Proko had been so lonely he almost couldn’t stand himself, though he’d never been lonely before. Not in this life.) 

He wasn’t supposed to be this person, just like K wasn’t supposed to turn into  _ Joseph,  _ a stranger who laughed at other peoples’ jokes and didn’t do lines on school nights and  _ networked,  _ talking about connections that weren’t for contraband and party locations. 

He wasn’t supposed to be this bored pseudo-housewife but here he was anyway, taking a half-time course load and spitting in K’s face by slutting it up for Declan  _ fucking  _ Lynch. 

_ (Oh,  _ but it was so satisfying; all of it— the lust and the fucking and the sneaking and the guilt all wrapped up together with a bow and a bouquet of dynamite.) 

“Shh,” Declan said, eyes burning with mirth and that goddamn  _ gentleness  _ that made Proko feel both sick and so turned on he could hardly  _ see.  _ A Lynch shouldn’t want to touch him like  _ this.  _ Like he was something fearful and fragile and  _ precious,  _ like he was  _ everything  _ contained in one body, the whole universe in a knock-kneed Slavic fuckup. 

He felt small in Declan’s lap, overwhelmed by the sheer bulk of his boxer’s shoulders and the breadth and width of his working-man hands, pale and fine-boned. With his eyes like ice and hair like blackest night, Declan Lynch was everything that Proko’s Baba had described Death to be, in the flesh. 

(Or maybe that wasn’t true— maybe it was K’s Baba, or the Baba in some old story that K grafted into his memories to fill the gaps.) 

“Shh,” Declan said again, and tangled his fingers up in the diamond tennis chain that K had dreamt up for Proko, had wrapped around his neck just the night before, after fucking him slow and deep and  _ raw,  _ turned onto his stomach and moaning into the pillows. An island of pleasure, marooned, with his thundering heartbeat. With all the lust in the tristate area and all the loneliness, too. “S’nice,” Declan commented, teeth gleaming when he smiled. The expression was not  _ quite  _ kind or reassuring. Proko shivered, and felt syrupy all over. 

It was a good thing he was draped all over Declan’s lap— Proko wasn’t sure he could summon the strength to stand. To stand or walk or leave. 

He wasn’t sure that he didn’t  _ want  _ to, a feeling only compounded when Declan easily dismantled his own double Windsor with a single hand, drawing his subtly-patterned silk tie from around his neck so he could loop it around Proko’s, the water-slick feeling of the fabric on his bare skin sublime. 

“A loan,” Declan murmured, nonsensically, a non-sequitur; Proko’s vision was blurring and he couldn’t breathe even before Declan started twisting the ends of his tie together over his fist, tightening the noose in even, slow increments. Proko was nearly crosseyed, watching the loop close around his throat. 

Then he  _ felt  _ it, and Declan jostled him a little bit to get his attention, like he even  _ had  _ to,  _ fuck— _ “eyes on me,” he commanded, in the easy way of a man who was used to being listened to. 

(Who would tell Declan Lynch  _ no?  _ Who  _ could?)  _

The pressure around his throat increased; Proko was sure he was turning all unflattering shades of red and purple, but Declan’s eyes were warmer than they had ever been and he looked at Proko like he was as desirable as he’d ever been. There was a wrenching pleasure in that, even above the all-consuming, hand-numbing,  _ wretched _ pleasure of being denied air just because Declan wanted it to be so. 

Declan Lynch, lord and master of everything in the world that had not been plucked from a dream. 

Proko, willfully giving him  _ this.  _ His life in Declan’s hands. His life, which belonged inexorably to K, and here he was being  _ flippant _ with it, and  _ oh,  _ when K found out— he was going to be so  _ mad,  _ with bruising hands and probably something terrible dreamt up to replace the diamond chain— a spiked collar, or something that  _ burned,  _ or something  _ worse—  _

“Fuck,” Proko mouthed, and came, lips tinged blue and hips rocking fiercely, rubbing himself along Declan’s hipbone, his belt buckle, anything firm enough to hold up to his frenetic friction-seeking. 

Declan soothed his wondering whimpers with a thumb rubbed over his bruised mouth, returning to its natural rosy hue slowly. “Good,” he said simply, and guided Proko to his knees, touching the brilliantly red ring around his slim neck that would shortly become blue, black, purple. Prettier than the gaudy diamonds Kavinsky had come up with, and infinitely sharper a point. 

Declan loved making  _ points.  _

Declan loved  _ winning.  _ He touched the wide spread of Proko’s mouth with his knuckles and smiled and thought of Kavinsky’s imminent rage and  _ came,  _ eyes rolling back into his head. A split-second of weightless  _ nothing,  _ before he had to return to his skinsuit and his  _ morals  _ and his  _ responsibilities.  _ Sometimes he thought that  _ he  _ ought to have been the dream-thing, brought to life out of the ether. Sometimes he thought he was not a person at all. 

Proko waited patiently on his knees with a bruised throat and bruised mouth and accepted Declan’s help in standing, graceful as a storybook prince with the weight of the world on his shoulders. He reminded Declan of nothing so much as the lead danseur in the production of  _ Swan Lake  _ he’d taken Ashley to see in New York City last winter, the prince chasing after Odette but getting bamboozled by Odile. Unmoored, unreal, too perfect to be alive but too vital to be dead. A trophy, a doll, an ice sculpture. A broken thing wrenched out of Kavinsky like Athena sprung from the head of Zeus, fully-formed. 

Matthew had been a seed of light and joy born from Ronan’s hands. Prokopenko was a lightning-struck tree born from Kavinsky’s grief and selfishness, and it  _ showed.  _

“Have you ever been happy?” Declan murmured, too-low for Prokopenko to make out. 

_ No,  _ the curve of the dream-thing’s spine said,  _ never ever.  _

He watched Prokopenko touch the bruises he’d left thoughtfully, going to examine them in a mirror that Declan’s interior decorator had hung from the wall directly opposite the sofa. His lips curled in a ghost of a smirk, shoulders straightening in something like pride. 

“There’s a car waiting outside.” Declan told him, turning bodily away so he could begin to divorce himself from the scene, from what they’d done. The car would drop off Prokopenko at Kavinsky’s and then go pick up Ashley— they were going to see a play.  _ Our American Cousin.  _

“See you around, Lynch.” Prokopenko said, not quite a sneer or a sigh but somewhere in between, a tone that was both resigned and taunting. Inevitably, this would happen again. Until either Kavinsky killed Prokopenko or Declan ran afoul of some buyer or another in his dealings, there would be this to bind them together. Prokopenko, who wanted nothing more than to be simultaneously degraded and adored, and Declan, who wanted  _ everything,  _ and wanted it too much for anyone’s good. 

** _u shud kno better thn this lynch_ ** a text from an unknown number read, when Declan checked his phone at intermission that evening, waiting for Ashley to finish powdering her nose in the ladies’ room. 

He rolled his eyes and deleted it, knowing that it would infuriate Kavinsky more than any response. It’d been too long since he’d had a real fight— since the last time he’d seen Ronan face-to-face, probably. If Kavinsky could be provoked into it, he’d be a pretty decent distraction for the five or so minutes it would take for Declan to beat him into a bloody pulp. 

***

_ these days it’s hard to sleep alone, _

_ i beg my baby ‘please don’t go.’  _

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
